Chapter 5 CH. 5

SERA VOSS

The sun has set by the time Lucian finally declares that I've absorbed enough about his family for the day. He offers to drive me home, but I shake my head, declining with a forced smile.

"Suit yourself," he says, his tone neutral, but his eyes linger for a moment longer than they should. "Be here tomorrow. There's more to learn."

"Of course, Mr. Caldera," I reply, my attempt at sarcasm falling flat.

He doesn't respond, and I take my leave, walking down the villa steps with a strange mixture of pride and dread swirling inside me.

By the time I get home, that fleeting sense of accomplishment vanishes, replaced by a cold wave of anger and disgust.

The sight in my living room stops me in my tracks: empty beer bottles littering the floor, bags of chips torn open and scattered, the stench of cheap alcohol hanging in the air. And there, in the middle of the mess, is him.

My father.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demand, my voice cold and sharp as glass.

He doesn't even look up, just tears into another bag of chips, his filthy sneakers propped up on my coffee table like he owns the place.

"I said, leave!" I bark, pointing at the door.

Still, nothing. Not a flinch, not a glance.

Violet appears from the kitchen, her face pale and apologetic. She wrings her hands nervously. "Sera, I'm sorry. I didn't want to let him in, but-"

"But what?" I snap, my anger spilling over. "I told you he's not allowed here!"

She looks down, tears brimming in her eyes. "He pushed past me when I came home. I-I couldn't stop him."

I close my eyes for a second, trying to rein in the storm building inside me. Pulling my phone out of my bag, I dial the cops, but before I can hit call, his hand lashes out.

The phone clatters to the ground, and I stare at him, stunned.

"That," he slurs, pointing a thick finger at me, "is no way to treat your father."

"Father?" I laugh bitterly, the word tasting like poison on my tongue. "You're no father. You never were."

He leans back in the couch like he owns the place, popping another chip into his mouth. "Watch your tone, girl. I'm here for a reason."

"Right," I snap, crossing my arms. "And what noble purpose brings you to my doorstep this time? Beer money? Gambling debt? Or maybe you just missed trashing my life?"

"Funny," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smug grin. "I saw something in the news. You're dating some big-shot CEO, huh? Figured I'd stop by to meet my rich son-in-law."

My stomach twists, the bile rising. "You're unbelievable."

He shrugs, his voice smug. "What? Can't a father want better for his daughter? Thought you'd be grateful I came to check in."

"Grateful?" The word leaves my lips in a broken whisper, disbelief seeping into my question. "Grateful for what? For all the times you never showed up? For leaving me to fend for myself while you drank yourself into oblivion?"

"Careful," he says, his tone darkening. "Don't forget who you're talking to."

"I haven't," I spit. "You're a parasite. And you'll get nothing from me-or Lucian. Now get out."

I march over to him, grabbing his arm with all the strength I can muster, trying to shove him toward the door.

"Get out!" My voice cracks, rising with every word. "Get out, get out, get out!"

He jerks free, pushing me backward. My feet tangle, and I hit the floor hard. Pain shoots through my hip, but I barely notice it through the haze of rage and humiliation.

"Sera!" Violet rushes to my side, her hands trembling as she helps me sit up.

From above, my father looks down, shaking his head like I'm the one who's failed him. "You're just like your mother. Always too emotional."

The door slams behind him, but his words linger like a slap to the face.

I push Violet's hands away, stumbling to my feet. "I'm fine," I mutter, my voice hoarse and broken.

"Sera, wait-"

I don't wait. I stagger to my room, locking the door behind me. The tears come before I even make it to the bed, hot and relentless. Memories flood in: nights spent crying myself to sleep, mornings waking up to broken promises, years of carrying the weight of his absence.

And now this.

I bury my face in the pillow, letting the sobs take over. Somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and anger, sleep finally claims me, but not before one thought takes root.

How long before he comes back?

The morning air is cool, crisp, and alive with the kind of stillness that makes everything feel possible

The morning air is cool, crisp, and alive with the kind of stillness that makes everything feel possible. For the first time in months, I lace up my sneakers and step outside, ready to push the chaos in my head into the pavement beneath my feet.

"You're just like your mother. Always too emotional."

The words are a relentless echo, pounding against my skull, chasing me as I break into a jog. Faster. My breathing grows heavier, more erratic, but I don't stop. Not until my legs burn, my lungs protest, and the world blurs past me.

Finally, I stop at the park, collapsing onto a bench. My chest heaves, heart slamming against my ribs like it's desperate to escape. I press my palms to my knees, staring at the ground as I catch my breath. Strangely, the exhaustion feels good-like I've outrun something.

A ping from my phone breaks the moment. It's a text from Violet.

> Are you okay? I made breakfast if you want some.

I stare at the screen, my heart softening despite myself. She doesn't deserve the way I lashed out.

The walk home feels endless. My legs are trembling, each step a reminder of my impulsive sprint. By the time I make it back, I'm drenched in sweat, feeling equal parts accomplished and regretting every decision that led me to this moment.

True to her word, Violet's prepared breakfast, the aroma wafting through the kitchen. She's sitting at the dining table, her hands clasped tightly together. She looks up when I enter, her expression cautious.

She shouldn't feel like this. She shouldn't feel like she's the one who's failed me.

"I'll be right back," I say softly, heading straight for the shower.

The hot water washes away the sweat, but not the guilt. It lingers like a shadow as I change into fresh clothes and join her at the table.

Violet watches me, tentative, and the guilt in my chest doubles. I take a deep breath and meet her gaze.

"I'm sorry for raising my voice at you," I say. The words come out stilted, but I mean them. "It wasn't your fault."

Her eyes soften instantly, and she stands, pulling me into a hug before I can protest.

"It's fine, Sera," she murmurs, squeezing me tightly. "I understand. Really, I do."

I sit back down, and for the first time in what feels like forever, we share a meal together without tension hanging over us.

We chat about nothing in particular at first-what's on the news, some silly gossip about a neighbor-and it feels good, light. Then I decide to tell her about Lucian.

"So," I start, trying to sound casual. "Lucian came to see me at the culinary institute yesterday."

Violet freezes, her fork hovering mid-air. "What? Lucian Caldera? At your school?"

I nod, enjoying her expression. "Yep. Showed up, stood there looking all tall, broody, and billionaire-ish."

Her jaw drops. "Wait. Are you serious? What did everyone say? Did you get stares? Did he whisk you off in a limo or something? Was he-"

"Calm down," I laugh, cutting her off. "He didn't whisk me off anywhere. He just came to see me because I asked him to. But yeah, I got stares. A lot of them."

Her eyes light up, and she leans forward conspiratorially. "Do you realize how insane that is? Lucian freaking Caldera shows up at your school, and you're acting like it's nothing? Sera, this is next-level stuff!"

I shrug, trying to play it cool, but her enthusiasm is infectious.

"Well," I say, smirking. "At least I'll have a good story to tell Amara tomorrow. Can't wait to see her reaction when I walk in with a smug look on my face."

Violet grins. "And her bald head!"

We both burst into laughter, the tension from last night finally melting away. It feels good-needed-to laugh like this.

For a moment, the world doesn't feel so heavy. And maybe, just maybe, I can survive whatever comes next.

^_^

Violet leaves not long after breakfast, rushing off to her job at the animal shelter. Her schedule is always packed, but somehow, she finds time for me-more than I probably deserve.

I head to the grocery store next, the weight of my latest culinary disaster looming over me. Thanks to Amara, I have to redo the duck à l'orange for assessment. Typical.

The trip to the store is uneventful, save for the occasional pang of frustration at my less-than-glamorous errands. As I'm paying, my phone buzzes on the counter.

>Lucian: Why are you not at the villa?

I blink at the screen. At the villa? This early? I glance around, half-expecting someone to leap out from behind the produce aisle and drag me off.

"Throw my own life away for his lessons on luxury," I mutter under my breath, but the reminder of his promise about the restaurant stops me short. I sigh, grabbing the grocery bag and heading for the exit.

Within twenty minutes, I'm at the villa. This time, no butler greets me at the door, no maids are neatly lined up like yesterday. I step inside, confusion settling over me like a too-heavy coat.

In the living room stands a man, dressed like someone who's deeply committed to the French aesthetic: a tailored navy blazer, a cravat, and shoes so polished they might blind me if the sun hits them right.

"Ms. Seraphine?" he asks, his accent decidedly American despite his appearance. His eyes rake over me-messy bun, track suit, grocery bag in hand-and I can practically see the judgment dripping off him.

"Yes," I reply flatly, shifting the bag in my hand.

He clears his throat, a delicate, almost theatrical sound, and gestures to a maid I hadn't even noticed lurking nearby. She steps forward and plucks the bag from me with the kind of efficiency that suggests she's done this a million times.

The man straightens, introducing himself with a flourish. "I am Mr. Charles Whitaker, your etiquette instructor. I've been appointed by Mr. Caldera to ensure you meet the standards expected of a woman in his circle."

"Etiquette instructor?" I echo, blinking at him. "Like...manners and stuff?"

His nose wrinkles ever so slightly, like I just insulted his entire profession. "Manners," he repeats, as if the word tastes sour. "And stuff, yes. More specifically, posture, poise, conversation, attire. Everything you'll need to successfully portray the refined partner of a man like Mr. Caldera."

"Right," I mutter, crossing my arms. "And where is this Mr. Caldera today?"

"Mr. Caldera will not be joining us," Charles replies smoothly. "He has other matters to attend to."

I don't know why, but that information leaves me feeling...deflated. Not that I'd admit it.

"Shall we begin?" Charles gestures to the couch, and I sit reluctantly.

He launches into a long-winded explanation about the importance of presentation, emphasizing that a lady must always look her best.

"So," he says, eyeing me pointedly, "track suits. Thoughts?"

"They're comfortable?" I offer.

"Indeed," he says dryly. "And utterly unsuitable for any occasion outside of physical exertion. Imagine if you were seen in public like this."

"I am in public like this," I counter. "I was at the grocery store five minutes ago. Nobody fainted."

He stares at me, unimpressed. "You're missing the point, Ms. Seraphine. Appearances are not merely about others; they are a reflection of one's self-respect."

"Right," I say, deadpan. "Because nothing screams self-respect like wearing shoes that cost more than rent."

Charles inhales deeply, clearly summoning reserves of patience. "Let's move on. Posture. Stand up."

I do as he says, and he immediately starts critiquing everything-my shoulders, my chin, the way I distribute my weight.

"Relax," he says, pushing gently at my shoulders.

"You're telling me to relax while shoving me around?" I quip.

"This is for your benefit," he replies, ignoring my tone. "A slouching woman is a distracted woman. A confident woman commands attention. Now, walk across the room."

I take a step, and he immediately snaps, "No, no, no. You're stomping."

"I'm not stomping," I argue.

"You're stomping," he insists.

I glare at him but comply, trying again.

"Better," he concedes. "But still aggressive. You're not marching into battle."

"Maybe I should be," I mutter under my breath.

He doesn't laugh-of course, he doesn't-but the maid in the corner coughs suspiciously into her hand.

By the time we move on to table manners, I've decided Charles is part genius, part torture device in human form.

"Fork in the left hand, knife in the right," he instructs, placing the utensils in front of me.

I pick them up and immediately switch them just to see what he'll do.

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"Ms. Seraphine, that is-"

"Unforgivable?" I cut in, smirking.

"Precisely," he huffs. "You think this is amusing?"

"A little," I admit.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about lost causes.

"Fine," I say, relenting. "Fork in the left, knife in the right. Got it. Anything else?"

"Plenty," he says grimly, gesturing for me to sit back down. "Let's talk about conversational etiquette."

"Oh, this'll be good," I mutter, earning myself a sharp glare.

As the session drags on, I can't decide if I want to laugh at Charles or throttle him. Either way, I'm certain of one thing: Lucian owes me big time for this.